


Of Lashes, Lies, and Lasting Impressions

by SabbyStarlight



Series: George Eads Appreciation Week 2021! [4]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gen, George Eads Appreciation Week, Hurt Jack, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Mac, Whipping, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:02:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29863353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SabbyStarlight/pseuds/SabbyStarlight
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Jack actually knew when to keep his mouth shut.  Knew when that was the better option than giving voice to whatever thought came to his mind.  That was the excuse, at least, that he was going to use if someone ever asked him why his mouth suddenly went as dry as the Texas dirt he was instantly transported back to when he realized that the shape he was trying so hard to distinguish was a bullwhip.  And it was slowly being unfurled.
Series: George Eads Appreciation Week 2021! [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2189058
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30





	Of Lashes, Lies, and Lasting Impressions

"I'm tellin' y'all, I don't have it!" Jack tried, not for the first time, to convince the two men of that. They each had a death-grip around one of his biceps as they hauled him into a room that, he could only assume, was going to be even less fun than getting caught roaming the halls of the building he most certainly was not supposed to be in had been. Though roaming wasn't exactly what he had been doing. Distracting, was more like it. Distracting from the fact that Riley and Mac had needed a few more minutes to finish wiping any last traces of the computer virus these goons were attempting to sell to the highest black-market bidder off their servers and he was more than happy to be the one getting caught, even if it meant taking a few punches, as long as it gave his kids enough time to get safely out of the building. "A computer virus? Why would anyone want to steal one of those, anyway? My boss makes me pay for that virus protection stuff on the work computer every month, why would anyone want to sneak in here and take one?"

"Because it is worth a small fortune," Another voice answered as they entered the room, having overheard Jack's questions. "And it has come up missing. Seeing as how you are the only person in the building without authorization, I think our suspicion is reasonable." The man was well dressed, a perfectly pressed and tailored suit with a nice tie and shoes to match. Cufflinks glinted from his wrists as he slowly removed his jacket as he talked, folding it over the single chair in what Jack could only assume was an interrogation room based on the lack of windows and any other furniture.

Something was wrong though. The suave, well-dressed man wasn't the muscle. He was clearly higher-up than that. If he wasn't the man in charge he was at the very least near the top of the chain of command. And yet he was dangerous. There was something about him that had the hairs on the back of Jack's neck standing on end. Something that left him very, very glad that he had let himself be the one caught instead of Mac or Riley. Because whatever the man had planned, and Jack's instincts were telling him it was about to be something very unpleasant, he could get through it. He would be fine because no matter what happened, it wouldn't hurt as much as knowing he had let one of his kids get hurt instead.

He was no stranger to torture. He could handle anything that was thrown at him, and whatever it was it probably wouldn't even be the first time he had dealt with it, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to at least try and talk his way out of it. "Look, I don't know who you are, but you seem like a reasonable man." That remark was met with a single raised eyebrow and Jack kept trying. "Your buddies here," He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the two men who had finally dropped his arms and had taken a step back, guarding the door. "Aren't nearly as civilized. I tried tellin' 'em, I don't know what virus you think I took. But I didn't take anything. Honestly, man."

"Then who are you?" The man, who hadn't offered up his name yet and Jack doubted if he was ever going to, smiled. "And why were you found in my office?"

"My name's Wyatt," He began, because the best lies always held at least a little bit of truth and there was something about the way the man was staring at him that made Jack think joking around would not end well for him. "I'm a photographer. Not sure if you overheard me talkin' about my boss earlier, but he asked me to do a piece on the abandoned buildings in the area. The potential they have, just goin' to waste. What they could bring to the community if the city converted them back into usable space, that sort of thing. There's never any cars in the parking lot, never see any lights on in here when I drive by every day, I assumed this place was empty too. So I was scoping it out. To see if it would work for my story. I really am sorry, I didn't know anyone owned the place. Just, let me go and we can forget this whole thing happened, okay?"

He had a moment of thinking that it had worked, that his mouth-the thing that so many people blamed on getting him into trouble over the years-had finally gotten him out of it for a change, before the man began laughing, hands coming together in front of his chest in a round of slow applause. "A nice story. Really, a very commendable try. A complete lie, of course, but I respect your commitment."

"Respect it enough to let me go?"

"No. No, not at all. I said I respected your story, not you. And my virus is still missing."

"I don't have it, man," Jack insisted. And that wasn't a lie. Because he didn't have it. Riley and Mac did. Saved away safely on a flash drive in one of their pockets. Or maybe in Riley's laptop case. And he had bought them enough time to, hopefully, get out. Now he had to buy them enough time to make it back to the car and call for backup. All he had to do was hold out until it arrived.

"He had this on him," The goon on Jack's left spoke up, holding the gun he had pulled from the holster on Jack's thigh out as evidence. "When we found him."

"A photographer, hmm?" His boss turned to Jack with a smug grin. "That needs to carry a piece like that?"

Jack shrugged. "I told you, I'm workin' on a piece about abandoned buildings. You know what kind of riffraff shows up in flophouses? I feel safer having something to defend myself with."

"Tell you what, you show me right now that you don't have any more weapons on you? And I'll let you walk right out the door."

"The bodyguard escort into this charming little room wasn't enough?" Jack scoffed, unable to turn off the bravado even when his nerves were screaming for him to act. To shut the hell up and get the hell out. "Now you're gonna make Thing One and Thing Two here search me?"

"No. A man as confident as yourself? So willing to prove that he's as innocent as he says he is? Should be more than willing to show me."

"So it's a striptease you're after, huh?" Jack nodded, letting his years of undercover training take over and keep up the charade of ease as a new round of warning signs began flashing in the back of his mind for an entirely different reason. "That's what this little windowless room is for? Should have known."

"Show me there is nothing to see," The man shrugged, seemingly unbothered if Jack complied or not. "And you can leave."

There wasn't another way out, not that Jack could think of, even knowing what would be revealed. He had to make sure Mac and Riley had time to get safety before shots started flying. "Oh, there's plenty to see," Jack promised, the double entendre rolling out in his southern drawl with ease as he began unbuttoning his shirt. Three buttons opened and his second holster was visible, stark black against the ribbed white tank top he was left in when he let his button-down drop to the floor behind him.

"A photographer, hmm? Just protecting himself? With a backup piece?"

"My kid's in the Scouts," Jack quipped back, hoping the admission of him having a kid, even if it was only true in the ways that really mattered, not legally, wouldn't be turned around and used against him. "Always be prepared, and all that."

"Let's get rid of that one as well, shall we?" Expectant fingers reached out, waiting impatiently, and Jack didn't have any option other than to unclip the holster and drop it, along with the peach of mind it represented, into his captor's hands.

"Now that shirt and anything else that's beneath it."

"Where would I keep another one?" Jack asked as he pulled the tank top over his head one-handed, ignoring the chill that washed over him, choosing not to dwell on wondering if it was caused by nerves or if it was actually cold in the room they were standing in. "Think I'm running out of hiding places."

"Boots next," The man nodded towards his feet, unimpressed with Jack's attitude.

Leaning down to untie the laces revealed his back-up's back-up, tucked in the waistband of his jeans and the muscle who wasn't already twirling his first-choice around his finger like an excited kid playing with his first cap gun plucked it free and held it up proudly. "Got another one."

"Three? Wow. You're either incredibly dangerous, incredibly important, or incredibly cocky."

"I told you there was a lot to see," Jack shot back, kicking off his boots and making sure to tip over the one with the knife inside so it slid out and into view. There was another, of course, a small little pig-sticker of a blade hidden beneath the sole of that same boot-because nobody thought to check the same shoe for a second blade after they found the first-but he didn't feel the need to point it out when it out of his reach and halfway across the room.

"Socks as well, please."

"There ain't nothin' in my socks," Jack rolled his eyes but pulled them off just the same and tossed them in the same direction as his boots. "That'd be hella uncomfortable, now, wouldn't it? Alright man, I think that's enough. You've seen what you need to see. If I take off anything else we're gonna have to up the rating on this little shindig."

"Jeans that tight don't leave much to the imagination, do they?" Roaming eyes slowly traveled back up Jack's body and he had to fight back a flinch, the appreciative gaze anything but flattering. "If they stay on are you going to tell me the truth about who you are, now? And what you are doing here?"

Jack pursed his lips, tilting his head side to side for a moment as if he was actually considering it. "Mmmm... nah. Gonna have to pass on that one. Sorry."

"What about where my virus has ended up?"

"Nope," He popped the p on that answer and grinned. "Don't think I can tell you that either."

"What a shame. Well then, do you see that wall there?" His head tipped to the side, indicating towards the largest of the three blank walls of the room.

"Yeah," Jack nodded slowly. The photographer cover story had long since passed up being even the slightest bit believable, but he couldn't help himself from raising both hands and making a square with his thumbs and index fingers, squinting through the imaginary lens. "A decent backdrop, if that's all you got to work with. A little scuffed up, could probably use a fresh coat of paint. And the lighting in here sucks, man. You're not gonna get a clear picture, all kinds of shadows'll show up."

"Why don't you stop talking, hit your knees, and face that wall for me?"

"No..." Jack shook his head. "Now, I don't think that's gonna work for me. Gettin' me out of my clothes was one thing. I agree, there are some things that just need to be seen to be appreciated, you know? So impressive you can't help but want to show it off to the world? But you gotta ask a whole lot nicer than that if you want to get me on my knees. I may be a lot of things, but a cheap date ain't one of 'em."

The sound of three bullets entering three separate chambers, nearly simultaneously, was enough to have him reconsidering. Nobody could have known that when he left the van earlier that day, choosing to arm himself with three pistols, that it would inevitably end with that being the perfect amount for him to have perfectly armed each of his captors, but it most definitely did not seem to be playing out in his favor and there wasn't much he could do to change it. "Alright, alright," He sighed, raising his hands in defeat and taking a few steps across the room slowly before lowering himself to his knees in front of the blank wall. "You happy now? This what you wanted?"

"What I want, is my virus back. Are you ready to make that happen?"

Jack shook his head. "No can do, compadre."

"Then I suppose this will suffice." Jack had found himself in situations over the years similar enough to the one he was currently in that he understood the implication that he wasn't supposed to move, not even to see what was happening behind him. Luckily for him, he hadn't been entirely joking when he was complaining about the lighting in the room. It was far from ideal for photographs because of all the shadows. The shadows were perfect though, for keeping an eye on the movements of his captors without turning his head. He was able to see the silhouette of the man in charge wave towards the door and one of the goons left without a word, returning a few moments later with something in his hand but Jack wasn't able to tell what it was.

"I consider myself a generous man," Jack watched the movements that accompanied the words closely as he listened, trying to figure out what was coming next as whatever was brought into the room was handed over. "So I'll give you one final chance to tell me what I want to know."

Contrary to popular belief, Jack actually knew when to keep his mouth shut. Knew when that was the better option than giving voice to whatever thought came to his mind. That was the excuse, at least, that he was going to use if someone ever asked him why his mouth suddenly went as dry as the Texas dirt he was instantly transported back to when he realized that the shape he was trying so hard to distinguish was a bullwhip. And it was slowly being unfurled.

_Aww, c'mon_ , Jack thought to himself, trying his best to keep his face impassive, to not let on that he knew what was coming. _Why's it gotta be that for? Damn, is this gonna suck_. He's quite proud of his whip-cracking record, probably brings it up more often than he should. But it's a tough skill to perfect and he had spent countless hours out in the barn practicing as a kid. Thwacking away at hay bales and workbenches until his dad had finally given in and dug out an old saddle that had been gathering dust in the tack room. It was going to cost more to have it repaired than it would to buy a new one but the first rule on any functioning ranch was to not throw anything away because there was always a chance that it would be needed one day. His whip had carved into the cracking leather time and time again while he perfected his aim, not walking away until the top of his hand was covered in raised pink lines from the lashes recoiling when one landed bad and his shoulder was aching. It had actually made for a good cover story, all those hours cracking a whip maybe doing some damage while he was a kid, the first time he had to come up with a lie to tell his mama to try and explain away the first time he threw that same shoulder out while undercover.

He knew exactly the kind of damage a whip could do if he fell into the wrong hands, and the hands Jack watched slowly slide down the length of the whip behind him were most definitely the wrong ones.

"Still no answer? What a shame. I thought you were smarter than that."

_At least he had the decency to make me take my shirt off first_ Jack thought, staring ahead of him at the blank wall and trying his best to focus on something, anything, other than what he knew was coming. _I like that shirt. Gonna have to remember to pick it up if I get out of here. No. When. Not if, Dalton, when. Mac's sendin' a team right now. Just gotta hang in until then._ It wouldn't even be the first time he had found himself on the wrong side of that particular brand of torture. He'd been there, and had the scars to prove it, and had come back stronger each time. It didn't mean it was pleasant though. _Wonder if he's gonna start low or up high? They always seem to go for the shoulders first. Which, if you're goin' this hard you might as well make it as dramatic as you can, I guess. But lower hurts worse. Skin's more vulnerable there. Hope he keeps it away from my neck. Neck's always a bitch to let heal up. Ribs are too._

He was well aware of the fact that if anyone could read his mind they would think he was absolutely insane, trying to distract himself from the inevitable pain by thinking about it in excruciating detail, but it worked.

Almost.

He was so focused on wondering where on his back the first lash was going to land that he was genuinely surprised when the first hiss of the whip whistled through the air. For the briefest of moments, he was relieved. Nowhere on his back split open, no sudden rush of fire erupting along his spine. But then the pain bloomed from the bottom of his foot, a live wire hitting sensitive skin and nerves lighting up with agony, nearly bowling him over from the shock. It took everything he had not to scream out as his mind raced to understand what had happened and every instinct he had begun begging for him to not let it happen again.

But it did. He was still gritting his teeth against the first lash and wasn't given enough time to prepare himself for the next one to fall. No time in between to catch his breath, to try to get a grip on his dignity, he hadn't even heard the warning hiss that the next strike was coming before it hit its target, like lightning striking across the bottom of his other foot, slicing across to match the first.

He couldn't help but keep count, at least at first, and by the time the fifth lash landed he had a hard time staying still, swaying on his knees, rocking with the force of each hit, vision swimming, but he stayed quiet. It was nothing more than a personal battle with his own dignity that left him able to keep the screams choked back, and really, he wasn't sure why the tears that began to course down his cheeks weren't a dig to his pride but letting loose a scream would have been, but he clenched his jaw so tight he was sure he felt a molar crack and rode it out.

Somewhere between the twelfth and the fifteenth crack of the whip he lost count, overwhelmed by the pain. A particularly harsh hit landed, curling around the sole of his left foot and wrapping around, breaking a path in the skin over the side and across the top and he lost his battle with his stoicism, letting out a yelp, his body collapsing forward, attempting to curl in on itself to try and shield him from the pain. He brought his arms up just in time to catch himself on the wall in front of him, inches away from his face colliding with the surface as the shadows continued dancing across it as the man behind him raised his hand to deliver another blow.

He didn't notice when it ended.

Trapped in a pain-induced haze, his focus entirely spent on staying somewhat upright and remembering how to breathe through the choking sobs that were continually trying to claw their way up his throat, he missed the final strike without realizing that it was over. It took an even longer time for him to notice that he was suddenly alone in the room, let alone to know what had happened to cause the torture to cease. All he knew was the worry, as silly as it might have seemed, that if he moved, it would start again. He couldn't risk breaking the spell of reprieve he had found- not that he was sure he was capable of moving anyway- so he stayed there, forearms braced against the rough plaster of the wall, head hanging limply from his shoulders as he pondered if it was sweat or tears that continued to plop onto the floor below.

He wasn't sure how long he waited there, unable to move, chest heaving as he tried, and failed, to get his breathing under control. He didn't even hear Mac calling for him at first, the sound drowned out by the droning, pulsing rush of blood in his ears.

"Jack?"

When he did hear it though, finally, the sobs finally found their way out, though from relief instead of agony. He wasn't sure that it was loud enough for anyone other than himself to hear-not that he cared, pride had gone out the window a long time ago- but it must have been because the door opened with a soft click and Jack was once again no longer alone. Protective instincts kicked in, primal fear desperate to do whatever he could to prevent another round of what he had just endured, and he panicked for a moment, though he didn't have the strength to do much more than scrabble his hands against the wall he was leaning against, unable to defend himself against the incoming threat.

"Easy, easy," Mac soothed, stepping closer, unable to hide the worry on his face, even though he didn't know what was wrong. "It's me. It's Mac. What…" His question answered itself as he got his first look at Jack's feet and the pool of blood growing tacky as it cooled around them. He had found out what was wrong, but all that did was raise more questions. "Jack, what did he do?"

"Maaac…" It was the first actual word that had passed his lips in what felt like forever, but it was closer to the screams that had tried so hard to creep past his defenses. A drawn-out whine, raw and full of primal hurt that had Mac dropping to his knees beside his partner, desperate to help but unsure how.

"I'll fix it, or at least I'll try," Mac promised. "But I need some answers, big guy, okay? I don't want to make anything worse. Can you tell me what caused this?" Another look at Jack's feet left him wincing in commiseration. The lashes had run together so that all he could see was blood and weeping, flayed skin, with no answer as to what had happened to have left it like that.

The offer of help, or maybe it was simply the relief of having Mac with him, of no longer having to suffer alone, gave Jack the energy to pry a hand away from the wall and wave it behind him, in the general direction of where he could see the shadow of the whip hanging off the back of the single chair in the room, seemingly harmless and innocent if not for the occasional drop of blood that would trail down its length.

It was all the answer Mac needed.

"Oh, Jack. Okay. It-it's going to be fine," A hand, hesitatingly gently landed in the space between trembling shoulder blades. "Are you hurt anywhere else? Did he... were you... are there any more?"

"Think," Jack rasped out, turning his head just enough to be able to see Mac as he spoke, needing all the confirmation he could get that it was really over. "That's enough. Don't you?"

"Yeah, I think that was more than enough," Mac reached out, hooking his thumb into the cuff of his flannel shirt and wiping away the tear tracks on Jack's cheeks. "But it's over."

Jack nodded, taking a few steadying breaths, helpless against letting his eyes fall closed under the gentle touch and leaning into Mac's hand for a moment, allowing himself a few selfish heartbeats of comfort before working up the nerve to move, turning around so that he was sitting with his back leaning against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him instead of kneeling. An experimental wiggle of his toes left him whimpering in pain and blinking back a fresh wave of tears.

"Let's not do that," Mac scolded gently, keeping a steady hand on Jack's shoulder, grounding through the pain.

"Did someone get him?" Jack asked, trying to distract himself from the pain and the fresh wave of nausea it brought with it. "The guy? Never got a name, just some psycho with a whip and a nice suit."

"No, it's just me. And I came straight to find you."

Jack frowned, pushing through the hurt to prioritize Mac, as always. "Where's your backup?"

"Hopefully on their way?" Mac offered a sheepish grin, knowing that he was in trouble, even if he didn't regret the move. "Riley was calling them in from the van. They'll be here. We triggered a... distraction. Made it seem like there was a lot more than just me coming back in. They fell for it, but I don't know how long it'll be before they realize it was a ruse and come back for you. I think we should probably get out of here before that happens, don't you?"

"Out of here sounds amazing," Jack agreed, putting the fact that Mac had put himself at risk to rescue him to the back of his mind and saving that particular rerun of a lecture for a later date.

Mac glanced back over at Jack's feet. "Unless you have a better suggestion, I think our best option might be me carrying you, man."

"No, no I can walk," Jack protested automatically. "Help me and I can walk."

"Jack, you're not walking anywhere. Not on those feet," Mac ran a stressed hand through his hair, asking himself what Jack would do for him. "I'm gonna get you out of here," he promised, dropping a hand to the side of Jack's neck, a move that always helped when he was the one hurting. "We'll be alright. But you have to let me do the work, alright? I'm not going to let you risk making it worse because you're too stubborn to let me help you."

"Don't think it can be much worse," Jack sighed. "But yeah, okay. Let's go home."

"Phoenix Med," Mac corrected as he stood up, ducking back down to lift Jack into a fireman's carry, grunting as his partner's weight settled across his shoulders and locking one hand behind Jack's knee, the other around his elbow. "Phoenix Med is our first stop. And you might be stuck there for a few days."

"This is a bad one, ain't it?" Jack sighed, resigning himself to being carried out of the building, swallowing hard around his words and telling himself it was simply a case of mind-over-matter to not let the swaying movement increased the pain-induced nausea he was already battling. "Gonna sideline me for a while."

"We'll get through it," Mac promised, nudging the door open with his foot and checking the hallway, making sure they were still alone before leaving the room, and the blood-stained memories it held, behind. "We always do."

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing for this show in late September/early October of 2016. Back then I couldn’t imagine writing Jack whump, it just didn’t come as naturally to me as Mac’s did (oh how things have changed, huh?) but there were always ideas. Ideas and daydreams and “not now, but one day” plans. And this was one of those. I didn’t write it for a long time because it was always too much. Too dark, too mean, too far, too big of a stretch from what canon would allow, and a million other excuses that don’t matter now, because Jack is ours. And I gotta say, this is probably my favorite fic I’ve written in a really long time. It came out even better than I had spent all that time imagining, and there is maybe the potential for a follow up of little recovery moments that could happen? If anyone is interested?


End file.
